Only Once
by caffeineaddict13
Summary: Who knew one wedding gift could mean so much? He had his chance.
1. Only Once

**A/N**: Takes place on Rory and Logan's honeymoon. Read the rest for yourself.

**Disclaimer**: Psht. I wish.

"Mmmphhh," she mumbled into her pillow before turning over and taking whatever was stuck to her face and pulling it off. _Went swimming,_ the post-it read, _didn't want to wake you. _She smiled, stretching her arms over her head. Sighing, she realized she wouldn't be getting back to sleep, so she crawled her way out of bed and into the kitchen. Pushing her bangs out of her face, she looked through the cabinets for her drug of choice.

"Where are you?" she said in a sing-song voice, practically ripping the drawers off. "Gotcha," she whispered, as if the bag of coffee beans could hear her. After pouring about three quarters of the bag almost straight into the water, she sat down at the table and reached for a newspaper.

Scanning through the pages, she spotted a small box at the door. _Huh,_ she thought, cocking her head to the side. Picking it up, she read the address. _Mrs. Huntzberger_, it said, although someone had scribbled an arrow next to "Mrs." and written "just" in small, precise handwriting. She bit her lip, trying to remember where she had seen that handwriting before. After she decided she wouldn't figure it out, she brought the box to the table and ripped it open with a knife. A letter lay on top of what she assumed was a wedding gift, although how it had gotten to her vacation house she had no idea. Sliding the knife across the top of the white envelope, she reached inside and took out a letter with the same clear-cut handwriting covering the page.

Her throat tightened as she scanned across the page, her eyes growing more and more clouded as each sentence settled in.

Rory, it read, I'm not really sure how to begin. Then again, I'm not even sure if I want you to read this. First off, congratulations on your marriage. I guess the blond dick at Yale had a little more in him if he managed to tie the knot with a Gilmore. I hope you're happy, and I'm not just saying that because it's the polite thing to say. I hope you're happy because if you're not then Porsche boy won't live till morning. I just wanted to tell you that I don't think I ever stopped loving you. Please, don't cry, or yell, or start thinking of all the ways to kill me. I'm not telling you because I expect you to come running into my arms as if you never left. Sure, I always hoped that maybe, some day, we'd be together. But I knew that we probably wouldn't. I wanted to tell you because I needed to tell you. You needed—need—to know.

The other day, one of my closest friend's son, an annoying—don't think I'm going to say cute—seven-year-old, came up to me and asked me a question.

"Uncle Jessie," he said, "do you believe in love?" I was surprised. A seven-year-old asking me about love? But I figured he might as well learn early, if ever. So I told him.

"Yeah," I said. Then he asked me something else.

"Then how come you don't have a girlfriend?" Once, again, I answered him.

"Because I only believe in it once."

That's the truth, Rory, that's really what I believe. In all the books I've read, and I'm sure that you've read, too, they always talked about this uncontrollable passion that two people shared, and how once you found it, you should never let it go. There are two mistakes in that belief. The first is that when you find it, the other person doesn't always share it with you. And the second is that they should have emphasized the "never" a whole lot more.

I know I lost my chance—more than once, at that, but it is what it is. There's nothing more I can do. So, you'll find a wedding gift underneath this letter, and I'm really gonna miss you.

Forever and ever, Your Dodger

Rory folded the letter, a few drops dampening it from her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she reached inside the rest of the box and pulled out a thin rectangle somewhat badly wrapped in plain brown paper. She smiled as the opened it; a real, true smile, and her laugh tinkled in the humid air.

"Of course," she said, gripping the book in her hand. _Only Lovely Things_, it said in simple writing. And underneath that, _By Jess Mariano_.

Just then, the phone rang, and Rory was so surprised she jumped.

"Hello?" she said, her heart rate still speeding.

"Hey, Ace," she heard from the other line.

"Hey."

"I'm guessing you're awake?"

"Ha ha," she said, her laugh sounding hoarse. "Yeah, I'm awake."

"I'm at that little coffee place we—well, you—found. Wanna meet me here?"

She forced a smile, as if he could see her through the phone. "Sure," she said.

"See you soon."

"Bye." She hung up the phone, and glanced over at her wedding present. Carefully, she folded the letter smaller and tucked into the front of the thin paperback.

_Only once_, she thought, before placing a soft kiss on the top of the book and heading out the door.


	2. Political Nut

**A/N**: So I lied. I decided to make this into a multi-chapter fic. It's my first—like, EVER—so please, _please_ promise me you won't break out the tar and feathers if it's not that great. Thannnnnnnnkkkkk you.

**Disclaimer**: All I own is seasons one through six on DVD and a strong desire to make Amy Sherman-Palladino president.

On to the fic…

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / 

"Hey," she said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek and pulling out the seat across from him. "Did you order yet?"

"Believe it or not, I was waiting for you," he said.

"Oh, right. Of course," her voice came out higher than usual.

"Something wrong?" Logan asked, looking concerned.

"No, no, nothing's wrong. Nothing at all," she babbled, trying not to sound like she was hiding anything. "In fact, I was thinking of writing a song about it. You know, how not wrong everything is. Maybe I could make a record and sell it on the black market. Then, of course, you'd have to help me not get arrested. That would make a good song, too. Did I ever tell you about Mom's plan to rob Sephora? Hey, do _you _wanna drive the getaway car?"

He laughed. "Okay, nothing's wrong."

She sighed. Since when did she adapt her mother's talent for incessant chatter?

"So, burger, I guess," she said to the waiter who was now standing by their table, waiting for them to order. "No tomato, or lettuce. Extra cheese, and chilly fries. And two side orders of onion rings. Oh, and a cherry Coke."

"That all, sir?" said the waiter, assuming that the order was for both of them.

"No, no, no." said Rory, flashing the man a smile. "That's just for me."

Logan laughed. "I'll have a BLT and—" he quickly flipped through the menu. "Do you serve alcohol here?"

"Yes, sir," said the waiter. "Would you like the wine list?"

"No, I'll just…"

Rory stared into space, trying to figure out the last time they had gone through one meal without Logan ordering a drink. _I wonder where Jess is_, she speculated, then quickly shook the thought out of her head. She turned her attention back to Logan, who, with the waiter gone to fetch his scotch, was either talking about beaches or leeches; she hadn't really been listening.

"So I thought that Sunday we could visit that little town where we had those really good steaks that time," he said. "Remember?"

"Mmmhmm," she said, nodding. _Jess would have taken me to a bookstore_. The thought had subconsciously wandered into her head. She furrowed her brow. _Jess? JESS? You're sitting here with your _husband_ and you're thinking about Jess?_ She tried to focus on what Logan was saying.

"And we could just meet up with them, you know, for old times sake."

"Meet up with who?" she asked, generally confused.

"I told you," said Logan, looking at her as if she had one of those cone-shaped hats on. "Collin and Finn. We'll meet up with them by that park with all those old professors telling you to go dig into a classic, or whatever. As if anyone wants to spend their vacation discussing The Fountain Head."

_Ayn Rand is a political nut._

"I mean, it's bad enough they have to go around pushing all these books on people, but at least do it when we're not trying to relax."

_Yeah, but nobody could write a forty-page monologue like she could._

"God, I hate those guys." He squinted his eyes, and waved a hand in front of Rory's face. "Hey, Ace. You there?"

"What?" she said, looking up suddenly. "Yeah. Right. Ayn Rand."

"Yeaaahhh," said Logan, pronouncing the word like it had three syllables. She hated when he did that. "You sure you're feeling okay?"

"You know," she said, putting on the kind of fake-sick expression kids use on their parents. Unfortunately, she wasn't that good at it, seeing as she never had any need to use it. "I think I might be catching the flu or something. I think I'm just gonna spend the day in bed."

"You sure?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. She nodded. "You want me to stay with you?"

"No, no. It's fine. I'm fine. You go ahead and beat up those professors."

"Well," he said, but she could see that she almost had him. "Okay." _Score_. "Call me if you need anything."

"I will." She gave him a kiss on the cheek and walked out, wondering if she had packed old Ernest in with the rest of her stuff.


	3. Run Like That

**A/N**: Okay. I left a few things out. All episodes through The Real Paul Anka have been accounted for, including Rory kissing Jess and telling him that she loves Logan. This also means that—in case it comes up later—Lorelai and Luke are still together. On another note, thank you SO much for the reviews. I like hearing what everybody thinks of my story, and I'm trying to update as regularly as possible, although I might not be able to update for a week or so after today. Also, this chapter might seem a little different than the others, but just stick with me. I didn't get much sleep last night, and the coffee maker is broken. Anyway, enjoy and keep the wonderful reviews coming!

**Disclaimer**: I once had a dream that I won the lottery and bought a house in the sky. Well, it was more of a castle, actually. It had hundreds of rooms, a tennis court, a movie theater, a bowling alley, and a swimming pool filled with ginger ale. And, as all good castles should, it came with elite ownership to Gilmore Girls and all of its characters. Unfortunately, until I can prove that this castle really exists, I own only the computer which I use to write my stories on. Sad, isn't it?

Rory sank down on the couch as soon as she reached the house. She slung her arm over her eyes as she attempted to catch her breath. Why had she run up there anyway? Everyone knows that Gilmores don't run. At least…

_When did you learn to run like that?_

She sighed. Why did Jess keep popping into her head? She got up, walked into the kitchen, and started pacing. It was the book, right? That _had_ to be it. And the title. That punk sure is good at making everything sound nostalgic. She picked it up again, resting her porcelain fingers over the words. _Only Lovely Things_. _Only Lovely Things_. _Only—_

"Argghhh!!" she said suddenly, throwing the book onto the floor. "Get outta my mind, Mariano!" She picked it up again, almost sorry she had thrown it down in the first place. She had this feeling that if she let it go, even for a second, something bad would happen.

"Oh, god," she moaned, massaging her temples. There was only one way she could think of to get rid of this feeling in her gut. She went into the bedroom, her eyes throwing daggers at whoever dared to get in her way. When she got inside though, she stopped; her face softening. _No_, she thought, shaking her head. _Too much Logan_. She walked back out into the living room and curled up in one of the big leather chairs that were definitely NOT her style.

"Oh, well," she said, sighing. _It'll have to do_. Then she placed the book in her lap, and began to read.

As each new page turned in her fingers, she found herself getting more and more engulfed in the story. Every sentence dripped with emotion; every action played as a movie in her head. When she was done, she read it again. And again. She would have read it a fourth time if she hadn't looked at the clock and realized it was getting late.

In a semi-concious, post-reading state, she got up and tried to calm herself down.

"Wow," she whispered, putting her hands on the side of her head and spinning in circles. "Wow, wow, wow. Wow."

It was his story. An auto-biography of sorts; although she doubted that anyone who didn't already know him would realize that it was such. He didn't use any real names, or towns, but she knew that it was his. She could tell from the way he described things and places and people. She knew where he was in each sentence, how he was feeling and what was going through his mind. She could see him as a sarcastic kid—a pessimistic teenager. And she could see herself.

Sure, she noticed the other characters more quickly. She smiled when she saw the way he fondly described the grumpy, plaid-wearing, problem-fixing uncle of his, who became more of a father figure to him than anyone else. She saw the eccentric townies, his flaky but lovable mother, and his it-might-take-some-time-but-I'm-trying dad.

She even saw _her_ mother, an annoying, quirky woman who the author of the story never fully understood. But it was only when she read about herself that Rory began to cry.

"_That's not called a trick, that's called a felony_," she heard herself say, gripping the words from her memory.

_I just wanted to put some notes in the margins for you_.

She saw them meet, she saw them flirt. She read words that she hadn't realized he remembered. But he did. Remember. He remembered everything.

_You know we're supposed to be together_.

She cried. No, she wailed, when she read—THREE TIMES—how she had rejected him. How she had let him walk away. And how she had run, just like him.


	4. Remembering

**A/N**: My muse came to me this morning; with a big red ribbon during math class. Who am I to ignore the gods?

**Disclaimer**: Sigh.

Two hours and many phone calls later, Rory was sitting on the couch watching Almost Famous and surrounded by enough Indian food to feed ten.

_Excuse me, I've seen you eat_.

"_Okay, six_," she quoted.

After realizing that there was know way in hell the thought of Jess was just going to disappear from her head, she decided to treat it rationally and think up a solution. _Really_, she thought, _it's only like when you get a song stuck in your mind_._ There are two ways to get rid of it: you can find another, more annoying, song and sing it and sing it until the other one is gone and the new one has taken its place_._ Or_, she smiled at this, _you can sing the one that's stuck so loud and so much that eventually it leaves to find another sucker to prey on_. She chose the latter.

Which was how she found herself knee-deep in samosa watching Kate Hudson commit suicide.

Her phone rang, and she pushed through piles of containers to reach for it. _Mom_, the caller ID on the front read.

"Urgggh," she groaned. "I'm busy!" she yelled at the phone. The truth was, she wasn't in the mood to explain to her mother why she was sitting inside wallowing instead of out with her husband on her honeymoon.

_Wait_, she thought. _Wallowing?_ She couldn't be wallowing. After all, how can you wallow over someone who you hadn't been on a date with in five years?

"No," she said firmly. "Definitely not wallowing." It was more like…remembering. Yeah, remembering.

She sighed. She was thinking about that giant dinner her mom had thrown for the town—with the costumes and the decorations and the people and the sleigh rides.

The sleigh rides. Ride. The one with Jess.

"_It definitely has the most personality_," she said, remembering what Jess had said about her snowman. "_Snowwoman, actually_."

Bjork.

Why was it that lately all her thoughts seemed incomplete?

She frowned. "Miss him," she muttered, hugging a pillow close to her chest.

"Miss who?"

She jumped at the voice. "Logan!" she yelled.

"Who do you miss?" he repeated.

"No one, nothing," she said quickly. "God, you scared me. When did you get in?"

"Just now," he said, taking his jacket off. "You were too busy having a conversation to your imaginary friend over here to notice."

"Ha ha," she said. "I was just…" she waved her hand, trying to think of an excuse. "…talking to the movie." _What the hell?_ She scolded herself.

Luckily, Logan had dealt with enough of her weirdness in the past to make much of it. "Sure," he said.

She let out a sigh of relief. Thank God he was so gullable.

"Hey," he said, suddenly, squinting his eyes. Her throat tightened. "Where's your ring?"

"Ring?" she asked.

"Your wedding ring," he said. "You're not wearing it."

"Oh, my ring," she said, glancing down at her hand. "It—"

_Reminded me that I'm married, and probably shouldn't be thinking of my ex-boyfriend_, she said in her mind.

"I…uh…took it off."

"Why?" he asked, his voice sharp.

"I, um," she scraped her mind. "Got a rash," she said quickly.

"From a twenty-four karat gold ring?" he said, looking suspicious.

"No," she said. "It was…" she trailed off. _Not a fight_, she thought. Abruptly she felt her mouth moving, as though reciting something from memory.

"_Just a fluke thing_," she blurted out. "_Actually, I think my Spanish midterm gave it to me_."

"Your Spanish midterm?" he shook his head. "What's going on, Ace?"

"Nothing," she said, putting her head in her hands. "It's just this flu. I think it's getting worse. I must have a fever, or something. It's making me all delusional."

"Oh," he said, looking concerned. "I'll go out to the drugstore and get you some medicine."

"Thanks," she mumbled. When she heard the door close, she hung her head.

"Ladies and Gentelman, Norman Bates."


	5. Apples and Sand

**A/N**: Heeeeelllllloooooooo, folks. Thanks for all the great reviews, and more is always better (hint, hint). I'm not really sure how long this fic is gonna be; I'm kinda just seeing where it brings me. I know how I want to end it—even the last few sentences and everything. I'm just not sure how I'm gonna get there.

**Disclaimer**: Are you kidding? If anything, GG owns me.

_I moved back_.

_What?_

_I moved back_.

_But—what—why?_

_Just wanted to_.

Rory smiled in her sleep, dreamily remembering the way his mouth felt on hers. He had a certain taste; cigarette smoke mixed with spicy cologne, heat and sweat and something else that she couldn't quite explain. Something that was just…Jess. She rolled over and floated along in her dream, that kiss never ending. Falling, falling, flying, soaring, gone.

She woke with a start, turning over on the couch. She had told Logan that it was better if she didn't sleep next to him—that he would catch her flu. The lie had taken almost no convincing.

She felt guilty about not wanting to sleep with her husband, but she knew that she would feel guiltier if she dreamt about Jess while sleeping next to Logan.

Carefully tiptoeing across the kitchen floor, she filled the coffee pot with water and picked up her book. No matter how many times she read and re-read it, she never got tired of hearing Jess's words. It was as close to kissing him as she could come.

_God!_ She thought, subconsciously smacking herself in the head. She had to get over this obsession. _Remember what he did to you_, she told herself. _Remember how he never called_. _How he didn't communicate_. _How he left, twice, without saying goodbye_.

Still, her mind drifted to other things. The way his lip drooped adorably a little to the right. The way he kissed her, in that spot behind her ear, that no one else did like he could. The way he would always have a cup of coffee ready for her when she came into the diner. The way he would snake his arm around her side, almost protectively.

She let out a sigh, not sadly, but sweetly, playing with the hem of her shirt. She picked up Jess's book and flipped through it, searching for one of her favorite passages. The one where he talks about the first time he saw her.

She sat down on the couch, resting her feet on the table in front of her, propping up her elbow on a pillow. She had read it so many times; she knew the words by heart.

_At first, the boy was startled, but he tried not to let it show_._ Cool, he thought, be cool_. _"Hey," she said, and he instantly loved her voice_._ It reminded him of sunlight, of apples and sand and warmth_._ As he came closer, he was struck by how beautiful she was; but not in that Marilyn Monroe, plastic-surgery kind of way_._ She was all sugar, innocence and spring_._ "Hey," he said back_._ And that's when he knew that she would be his everything_.

Rory closed the book, hugging it tightly to her chest. He wrote in third person, even though it was clearly about himself. _That sentimental jackass_, she thought, smirking. It was one of the ways she knew that he had grown up. Back when they were seventeen, he never would have said something like that; let alone written it down. He was still her Dodger; she could still hear his eye-rolling, sarcasm-drenched words in his book, but there was also that side of him that she had barely seen, and no one else even glimpsed at.

She flipped through the book some more, but then heard the coffee maker beeping. Not wanting it to wake Logan, she dropped the book and ran to the kitchen to turn it off. After she had poured herself a substantial amount of coffee, she went back to where the couch was, placing the cup on the table.

As the reached down to pick up the book, her eyes caught on something printed on the back cover.

A number.

A phone number, actually.

_Gotcha_, she head a voice in the back of her mind say. It sounded suspiciously like Jess when he would catch her with one of his pranks.

She stared at it for a while, pausing to take a sip of coffee. _So what?_ She thought, her logic-voice setting in. _So what if there's a number to contact him with? Why should you care? It's not like you'd ever talk to him_._ Especially now that you're married_._ Especially now that he told you that he was still in love with you_.

She closed her eyes. _But maybe_, a tiny, rebellious part of her mind said, _maybe you should call him_._ Just to tell him thanks, or something_._ You know, for the book_.

She wanted to agree with the second voice.

_Oh, please, _she heard her logic-voice bite back. _It's not like he'd ever do the same for you_._ Don't you even remember the day he left?_

She scrunched up her face.

_So you'll call me?_ She heard her 18-year-old self say.

_Yeah, I'll call you_.

She bit back tears, shaking her head slowly. Her eyes filled with a disobedient glare.

"So he left," she said out loud, that tiny part of her head taking control. "Big deal. It was a long time ago. And he did come back," she added, almost defensively. "He always comes back. I should at least have the courtesy to call."

And with her eyes still shining with defiance, she picked up the phone and started to dial.


	6. Morning, Ayn

**A/N**: Wow. I want to thank all of you for the fantabulistic reviews. After I posted Apples and Sand, they almost doubled! Also, to all of you who have been keeping up with my story, not to mention reviewing every chapter, thank you so so so so much. Keep it up ; ) And, as a heads up, this chapter will include JESS! Yes, Jess. Actual Jess, too, not just the one in Rory's head.

**Disclaimer**: Don't even get me started.

Dan da na na! THE FIC!

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / 

Without stopping to re-think, or talk herself out of it, or make a goddamn pro/con list, she held the phone up to her ear, waiting for some sort of greeting.

_Ring_. Rory took a deep breath. _Ring_. _Ring_. She let it out. _Ring_.

"'Lo?" said a groggy voice from the other line.

_Oh, shit_, she thought. _Say something_. "Um—hi," she said quietly, her voice cracking. _Smooth_. She cleared her throat. "I mean, hey."

"Rory?" said Jess, sounding more awake.

"Yeah," she said. _God, his voice was sexy_. She made a face. _You're married, Rory, _she yelled inside her head. "Married," she whispered.

"What?" said Jess, his voice still deep with that just-woke-up kind of volume.

"Um, nothing," she said quickly. "I was just—um, the television was—yeah," she said the last word louder. "See, the TV was on 'cause I couldn't sleep, and then I saw the book you sent me—you know the one—and I saw the phone number on the back and then I thought, well, who else just might be awake at—" she looked at the clock, "—four in the morning, although apparently I was wrong since you sound pretty tired, but it made sense in my head and—"

"Babble much?" Jess interrupted.

She blushed. "It's early."

"Rory," Jess said, his voice more serious than when he was mocking her, "Why'd you really call?"

_I'm glad you called_.

"Because…" she trailed off, trying to think of an answer.

_Because maybe you can explain what the hell this crazy woman is talking about_.

"Because?" he asked. She could hear his smirk through the phone.

_I promise_. _Commit to it one more time and if it still is awful for you, I will make it up to you_.

"Because…" she repeated. "Because…you never told me if you liked it," she blurted out.

"What?" said Jess.

"The Fountainhead," she said, proud of herself for coming up with something.

"Ayn Rand?" asked Jess, a trace of a smile in his voice. "You woke me up at four in the morning to ask me about Ayn Rand?"

"You're saying she's not worth the call?" she retorted.

"I never said that," he backtracked.

"You insinuated."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Okay," he laughed. Man, she loved his laugh. "I give."

"You still didn't tell me," said Rory.

"Tell you what?" he asked innocently.

"Oh don't act so naïve, Dodger, you know exactly what."

"So you got the book, huh?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Yeah, I did," she said, her tone softening. "Hey, don't think you're gonna weasel your way out of anything, mister."

"Didcha like it?"

"Don't change the subject."

"Come on, Rory, I really wanna know."

"Okay," she said. What was it about him that made her give in to anything? "I loved it," she said quietly. "It was incredible."

"It was nothing," he said modestly.

"You know it wasn't that, Jess," her tone was sad. _It was everything_.

"It was nothing," he said again.

"It was anything but nothing," she said firmly. "It meant so much to me, and you know that."

"Yeah, well," he said. "Whatever."

"Aww, there's my Holden Caulfield."

"You mock, but I hope you've noticed that I've still avoided your question."

She laughed, and then stopped when she heard some noise coming from Logan's bedroom. _My bedroom, _she corrected in her head.

"Um, I gotta go," she said.

"Okay," he said. "Bye, Rory."

"Bye, Jess."


	7. Saint Rory

**A/N**: Okay, so I have to say that you guys are the best. I was a little worried how everyone would take to my Jess, considering I've never written him before and he's kinda complex in a way. But after reading all the positive reviews I was patting myself on the back. One more to fifty! In other news, I'm still not sure how long this fic is gonna be, even considering how quickly the plot is progressing. And I know this chapter is sort of a filler, but, like I said, I'm still sorting things out, okay? I'll let you in on a little secret, though: I've already written the final chapter. Yup, a huge page of spoilers all to myself. Cue evil laughter

**Disclaimer**: Believe me, if I owned GG, not only would I have used my wiles to convince Lauren Graham and Alexis Bledel to do another season, but there would be much more Jess to go around.

Rory hung up the phone, then quickly threw herself onto the couch and turned on the television. She was smiling.

"Ror?"

She jumped. Logan was coming into the living room, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

"Uh…I, uh, woke up," she said.

"Why're ya'll googly-eyed?" he said, his words slurred with sleep.

"What do you mean?" she crossed her eyes, trying to read her expression. "I'm just a little out of it. From the medicine and the flu and stuff."

"Oh," he said. "I heard voices. Were you talking to someone?"

"No," she said quickly. He still looked suspicious. "I mean, yes. I was. Talking to someone. My mom!" she kind of yelled the last part, surprising the drowsy-eyed Logan. "I was talking to my mom!"

"You were talking to your mom," he said slowly. "You were talking to your mom at four in the morning."

"Well, you know us Lorelais," she said. "Once we've had our jolt, we're good for anything."

"Right," nodded Logan. "I'm just gonna…go back to bed."

"M'kay."

"G'night," he said, already making his way to the bedroom.

"Night," said Rory. Then she slammed her head against a pillow.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / 

The next morning, she was sick again. Okay, fake-sick.

"Are you sure?" asked Logan.

"Oh yeah," she said, managing a cough. "You go on ahead. I don't want you to miss out just 'cause I don't feel well."

"But it's our honeymoon…" he offered.

"No, really, Logan, it's okay."

"And you're positive you'll be good without me?"

"Ab Fab, dear."

"Right," he said, putting on his jacket. "Eat some soup for me, okay?"

"I'll even put some crackers in it." She waved him off, then laid down on the couch until she heard the door slam shut.

She picked up the phone, dialing the number that she had memorized the day before.

This time he picked up on the first ring.

"Truncheon," he said monotonously.

"Truncheon," she mimicked.

"Shut up."

"Aww, why the hostility, Jessie?" she cooed.

"Goodbye."

"You can't even manage two minutes talking to me?"

"Nope. Bye."

_Enjoy the food_.

"Don't go," she said. She had meant it as a joke, but it came out sounding forceful. "I'll…"

_Come back here_.

_Why?_

"You'll…?" he waited for her to finish.

"_I'll give you and eggroll,_" she quoted.

"I believe you still owe me one, Gilmore."

"You aren't gonna let me off the hook?"

"Nope," he deadpanned.

She laughed. "If you let me get away with it I'll tell you who _really_ egged your car."

"No way," he said, chuckling.

"What?"

"Rory Gilmore, saint of Stars Hollow, committing a felony?" he mocked disbelief. "I don't buy it."

"Buy it, brother." She leaned back on the couch, smiling from ear to ear. _Ahh, to be seventeen again_.


	8. What Could've Been

**A/N**: Okay. So I had an epiphany, and I know where this story is going. Unfortunately, there's only going to be a couple more chapters as of now, so get ready for many turns of the plot. Reviews?

**Disclaimer**: Ugh.

Rory laughed, filling her cup to the brim with coffee. It _was _the elixir of life, after all. The phone was positioned between her ear and her shoulder, and she was struggling to bring her drinks and snacks back to the couch.

"Nomph," she said, holding a bag of Oreos between her teeth.

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Yes."

"No."

"Ha!" she said triumphantly into the phone.

"I mean, yes!" Jess's voice was light and clear, even considering the distance of the call.

"You said no," she sang.

"I meant yes."

"You saaaaaiiiidddd noooo-ohhhh!" she sang louder.

"Oh my God, Rory."

"I'm not going to give up," she said. "If you think I'm going to give up you are seriously delusional, Jess."

"Colplay _is _alternative," he stressed.

"It is not."

"It is!"

"Is nawwhh-ahht." she whistled.

"Whatever," said Jess, in what she recognized as his I-have-no-more-come-backs-so-I'll-turn-monosyllabic-now voice.

"Yeah, yeah, James Dean," she quipped. "You just know I'm right."

"Whatever," he repeated.

She smiled, then noticed the red lights that flashed numbers on the clock next to her coffee cup. She sighed. Over the past two weeks, those numbers had become her enemy.

Every day, she would go out with Logan to whatever cool new place that they had to "check out" in town, always bringing a book along, usually Jess's. She new Logan wouldn't notice that she was sitting in the corner, engulfed in the story of the life of her ex-almost-love. She checked in every couple of minutes, exchanging a few quick words about the "great atmosphere/food/people" of wherever/whatever/whoever they were sitting/eating/meeting. It all was starting to blur together.

Then, just like an owl or a bat—something that only emerged at night—she would crawl on the couch, telling Logan that she had some work to do, and spend hours talking to Jess. It had grown to become her favorite time of day, her favorite thing to do, those talks.

And they didn't just talk about Coldplay, either. They talked about work, and movies, and music and books. They talked about Charlie Sheen and _Willy Wonka_ and The Distillers. They talked about life, and Stars Hollow, and Prague and Rome and Fez. But mostly, they talked about nothing and anything and _everything_. And they talked about it together.

The only thing they didn't discuss—it was kind of off-limits or something, an unspoken agreement—was their relationship. Which meant nothing about Logan or marriage or—she winced—love. They didn't need to define their friendship, if that's what it was, to each other or anyone else. For now, they were what could've been, and, _for now_, that was enough.

"Hey," she said, quietly. "It's getting late."

"Huh."

"I have to go."

"Huh."

"I don't want to go," she admitted.

"Then don't," he said.

"But I should," she said.

"Then go."

"You're not making this easier, Dodger," she laughed.

"Dodger?"

Her eyes widened. That wasn't Jess's voice. She slowly turned around, hoping with all her might that it wasn't who she thought it was. But who else could it be?

"Dodger?" Logan repeated; her entire body suddenly felt like silly puddy.

"I have to go," she said into the phone, even though she knew Jess had heard what was going on, and probably knew what it meant.

She took a deep breath and turned to face her husband.


	9. Love Isn't Easy

**A/N**: As always, THANKS FOR THE GREAT REVIEWS!! There will probably be some different reactions to this chapter. Personally, I don't particularly like Logan, but I don't not like him either. I tried not to make him take too much of the heat, because Ror, as much as I love her, has some issues of her own to work out. But it just kinda came out the way it did by accident. I'm crossing my fingers.

**Disclaimer**: Humble old me? Puh-lease.

"What's going on, Ace?"

She sighed. If only he'd picked his words differently. It reminded her of someone else's.

_What the hell is going on?_

Funny how her answer was the same, but the meaning was so much different.

"I—I dunno," she stammered, bowing her head.

"Yes, you do, Rory."

_I mean with you! What's going on with you?_

"I—what—it's…nothing. Fine—everything's…fine." No. Everything was screwed up, just like before.

"No, it's not. Something's going on," he said angrily. "I know it. I know you."

_I know you_.

Only this time, it wasn't true.

"No!" she said. Suddenly, just like that, she was pissed. No, furious. "You don't know me, Logan! That's the problem. You don't!"

It was his turn to stutter. "What—what are you talking about?"

"Us!" she screamed. "Don't you get it? It's not working!"

"Of course it is," he said defensively. "It's you. You're never here. You never talk to me, or tell me anything. You're always on the phone, or out, or somewhere else. It's like when we broke up the second time."

"Oh, God, Logan," her tone was annoyed. "I'm so over that."

"Then what is it?" he said, his face suggesting that he _actually_ didn't know. How could he not know? It was there, it was always _there_.

"It's this," she said, desperately wanting him to understand. "Us. This—this marriage."

"I don't understand. I love you."

"No," she sighed. "Don't say that. This isn't love—what we have. It's…want. Or hope. Or something. It's not love."

"Of course it is," he said. "We love each other."

"No!" she shouted. Her emotions were on their own, shifting up and down like a thermometer, and now it was boiling over. "It's not love! Love is…" she wanted him to understand. She wanted herself to understand. "Love is…_Howl_," she said.

"What are you—"

She interrupted him. "Yeah. Love is _Howl_. It's not coffee carts and forgiveness and everything's fine-just-fine; everything's perfect. It's spending ninety bucks on a basket full of crap," she said, laughing. She really was going insane. "It's not pet names and jewelry. It's stealing bracelets and twenty-four-hour dance marathons where you don't actually dance. It's Guns of Brixton and socks on the door and book teases and bribing and chalk-fucking-outlines."

He looked really confused now. She didn't get why.

"Don't you get it?" she said, her eyes wide. "It shouldn't be easy!" she yelled. "Love shouldn't be easy! It should be sneaking-hiding-everyone-hating-you tough. You should argue and argue, you should _hate_ each other; but then be able to go see The Distillers and be in love again."

"We have that," he said, but he sounded tired.

"No!" she said. "We don't, Logan. You don't know me." And she knew, then. She had finally figured out what he had figured out so many years ago. And, she realized now, it was probably too late.

"Well, God, Rory, who's fault is that?" Logan's voice was frustrated, and he zapped Rory right out of her thoughts.

"What do you mean?" she said.

"I mean you never let me in to what you are," he said. "When we first met, I chose you because you were different than everyone else. You were smart, really smart, and you loved to learn and to joke and had this wacko sense of humor. You were _real_."

_I know_, she thought. _I don't know what happened_. But she did.

"But you never let me in. It's not my fault, Rory."

No, it was hers.

"And you said you loved me." He was back to angry again. "You came back to me, twice. I gave you the ring and you took it. You said "I do" at the alter. You had a million chances to back out, but you didn't. So I'm sorry if you think it's me, but it's not."

"You're right," she said, tears streaming quietly down her cheeks. She wasn't sad though, she was just—it was just—well, _over_. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," he said. "So am I."

"So…" she sighed. "I guess…that's—it."

"Right," he nodded. "It."

And after all the work was done, all the i's dotted and the t's crossed, and everything was legal and binding, Rory walked towards her car.

"Where are you going?" Logan called after her. She already had her answer.

"I have to go take care of something," she said, and got into her car.


	10. Heat Colors

**A/N**: Well, this is it. The last chapter of my first multi-chapter fic, Only Once. Thanks to everyone, as always, for all the reviews; it really made this a lot more fun to write when I heard what everyone thought of it. Also, I know the last part is kind of cheesy, but I think that it deserved a little Gouda. Anyway, I hope you like this chapter, and please feel free to review it as much as necessary ; )

**Disclaimer**: Do you really think that I would own it anymore than I have this entire story? I don't think so.

Drum roll, please…

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / 

And she didn't stop, either; not the entire drive there. She didn't call her mom or Lane, and she didn't think it over. She didn't make a pro/con list. She didn't need to. Because, she knew now, even if she did—even if it was too late, she had to try. She _had_ to.

She turned the car off, taking the key out of the ignition. _Shit, _she thought, reaching for her purse. _Shit_. Her breathing was heavy as she fumbled with the cap to her mascara, finally taking out the brush and applying it with a shaking hand.

Smoothing out her skirt, she stepped out of the car and headed for the door of Truncheon Books. She took a deep breath, and turned the doorknob, praying, hoping—fucking _begging_ to God that he was in there.

Apparently it paid off.

She looked at him, dutifully working, writing, actually, not even noticing that someone—her, for God's sake—had entered the room.

"Hey," she said quietly. He didn't look up. "Hey," she said again, louder this time. He looked up. A million different things flashed across his face; surprise, and confusion, and maybe, at least, she hoped, happiness.

"Hey," he said. They just stared, quietly taking each other in. _Wow, _she thought, studying every part of him. His hair was a little longer, with no gel like when she had seen him the last time. He was wearing a button-up shirt and jeans, and his eyes were as coffee-bean brown as always. And, _my God_, she had never, ever seen anyone look as good as he did. At least, as he did to her.

"Mariano!" someone yelled, breaking the silence that they had been sharing.

Jess shook his head, as though coming out of a daze. "Yeah, uh, what—what is it?" he stuttered. She smiled; glad that she could still have that effect on him.

"Oh," said the guy—a tall, skinny brunette that looked about Jess's age—when he noticed Rory. He looked amused. "Who's the chick?"

"Um," muttered Jess, clearly embarrassed. "This is Rory. Rory, this is Ted."

"Nice to meet you," she said, flashing him a wife-of-a-politician smile.

"You too," said Ted. He nodded. "Finally."

"What?" asked Rory.

"Don't mind him," mumbled Jess, blushing. _Jess, blushing_. Rory took note of this.

"So," he said. "How are you? Since we last talked, I mean."

She knew what he meant. "Actually," she said. "I'm good. Really good, as a matter of fact."

"Huh," said Jess nonchalantly, but Rory detected a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Yup."

"Rory," he said, his face serious. "Why are you here?" She knew that he knew the answer. And he knew that she knew that he knew the answer. But he wanted to hear her say it, whatever it was, and she wanted to tell him, whatever it was. And now she was not only nervous but incredibly confused.

And out of all the things that she could've said, out of all the quotes from books she knew he'd read; and movies she knew he'd seen; and songs she knew he'd listened to; only one line worked its way into her head. _Twenty-two point eight miles_, she thought.

"Because," she said, her voice breaking. "Because you looked it up."

She wasn't sure who took the first step. Whether it was him or her who took that leap, letting go of everything to grab hold of something that much more important. She realized that she would probably never know. She also realized that, in the end, it didn't really matter.

All that mattered was that it was taken, and before she knew it they were kissing. She was surprised at how quickly she recognized his taste, but then again, she wasn't. It was just like she had remembered.

She pressed her mouth against his, never wanting to let go. Her head felt light and she was dizzy; everything was in reds and yellows and oranges. Heat colors.

She stepped back—but only a little, resting her arms on the back of his neck.

"It's you," she said simply. "It's always been you."

He grabbed her waist, pulling her into another kiss. She smiled at how well they fit together; like two pieces of a puzzle finally in the right place.

He opened his eyes, matching her sea for chocolate.

"Huh," he whispered into her mouth, and she laughed.

All around them, the world turned. If they just put on the radio or the TV and waited, they could see everything. Somewhere out there, someone was driving, someone was reading, someone was singing. There were babies crying, and students writing, and so many people all doing different things. But right then—right at that very moment—it was just him and her and them, together, two people that had a million things going against them, but still managed to make it happen. Huh.


End file.
